Garden of Yellow Roses
by Velirae.1245
Summary: It's been a year since the events at the Guertena exhibit. One day, Garry receives a strange painting. There is no sender. No explanation. Suddenly, Garry goes missing, and only a message on the painting remains: The blue rose is mine. Ib finds herself travelling back to the place of her nightmares in order to rescue Garry from the garden of yellow roses. Ib X Garry later on.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: It has been a long, long, long time since I've written a fanfiction story. I wouldn't have come back to it, but I discovered Ib. Enough said, right? Anyways, enjoy! I'll try to upload a chapter a few times a week, but I really can't promise anything with my schedule (work, original novels, editing, etc). Stay tuned for updates. :)

* * *

**Garden of Yellow Roses**

**Ch. 1**

Small knuckles rapped at the door of apartment 51. The chipping green wood dusted Ib's skin with a slight metallic tint, and the 1 on the door leaned against the 5 because of a loose nail that had yet to be fixed. Ib stood on her tiptoes and pressed her ear to the door, listening for the sound of footsteps before knocking again. When nobody answered, Ib squinted at the door. Wasn't it 3:30? Ib pulled her backpack from her shoulders and checked her phone.

3:35.

Ib reached up and pulled the 1 from the door. A spare key to the apartment hung on the nail behind it. Taking the key, Ib pushed it into the lock and nudged the apartment door open.

It was dark inside. Ib dropped her backpack in the hallway and flipped on the light.

"Garry? Are you here?" Ib called as she shut the door and kicked off the shiny red shoes Mother had bought her just last week. When nothing but silence greeted her, Ib padded past the kitchen into the studio apartment. A note lay on the table. Carefully, Ib sunk down in one of the chairs and looked over it.

_Ib,_

_ I'm currently out buying groceries! I will be back as soon as possible._

_ Feel free to make yourself comfortable. There are cookies and other ? in the fridge. :)_

_ - Garry_

Ib put the note down and went across the room to draw the black, velvet curtains that blocked out the sunlight. They were heavy, but she managed to gather the folds together and tie them on either side of the window before hooking the rope into the wall.

Manhattan staggered and groaned on the sidewalks five stories down. Looking out the window, Ib thought she could see the roof of her middle school just a few blocks down. Cars screeched, and people knocked shoulders in the street. Everybody looked busy. Everybody looked in a hurry.

_I wonder why people hurry so. Guess they don't realize how fast a rose can lose its petals._

Ib stared at the cloudless sky for a while, then slipped down from the window seat and wandered into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge for those cookies Garry mentioned. She found a package of unopened Oreos among a few, mostly-empty containers of Chinese noodles and cold pizza slices. A white paper bag was folded into the door of the fridge, and upon looking closer, Ib found four raspberry macaroons inside. Macaroons were delicious: chewy and often dusted with coconut. Her fingers itched to take a macaroon and nibble on it 'til the raspberry filling coated her fingers, but she didn't feel comfortable without asking, so she closed the fridge and took the package of Oreos to the table instead.

Garry's studio was alive and unique in the best possible way. As a struggling artist, Garry had a deep appreciation for painting, and spent many bright hours working away at his brush until the paint stained his clothing and freckled both hands. There were a lot of old paintings – happy, cheerful, paintings – hung on the walls from years ago. They showed his progress as he worked his way up from the bottom and honed his skills with a brush and palette. However, while his paintings were wonderful (thought often laden with meaning beyond Ib's understanding), they had suffered since the incident at the Guertena exhibit last year. Ib often caught him painting dolls – they scared her a little – and dark figures into the backgrounds of his paintings, though when she asked, he claimed he was simply making an artistic statement. She wasn't sure what that meant, but the paintings themselves were far from the cheery ones that hung on the walls, and it worried her.

The door swung open and banged against the wall. Ib turned to the sound of rustling grocery bags, and her mouth split into a wide, chocolatey grin. "Garry!"

"Hey, Ib." Garry smiled, arms burdened with two, full paper bags. He kicked the door shut, then set the groceries down just in time to catch Ib as she flung herself at him. Her arms locked around his neck as he bent down and hugged her. "Nice to see you too, Ib. I see you found the cookies?" He released her and took in the open package of Oreos on the table. "What are Oreos without milk? Come on." Grabbing the two bags, he took them into the kitchen and set them on the counter.

Ib followed after him and jumped up onto the opposite counter, watching him as he rummaged through the cupboards for two plastic cups. His coat looked more tattered than usual; she broke her Oreo in half and stared at the creame inside, wondering if he would ever buy a new one.

"How was school today, Ib? Any homework?"

Her shoulders slumped at his questions. "It was okay," Ib mumbled. "Just some math sets for homework. Nothing serious." She fiddled with her Oreo, hesitant, then sighed. "Some of my friends have been teasing me."

Garry looked over his shoulder in surprise, then finished pouring the milk and walked over to hand her a glass. His lavender hair fell into his eyes as he studied her, intensely serious.

"What are they teasing you about?"

Ib ran her finger around the rim of the glass and chewed on her lip. How would she put this without him taking it the wrong way? How could she explain how they laughed and pointed at her, whispering horrible words behind her back that didn't know the meanings of? The words left a bitter taste in her mouth when she thought about them. "They . . . think it's strange that my best friend is an adult."

Garry blinked at her for a moment, then smiled. "Ah. Age is a number, Ib, not a definition of who you are. It matters what you are in spirit." He straightened and held out a hand, offering her help down from the counter so she wouldn't spill her milk. "I honestly think I'm only ten years old at heart sometimes, just like you. I only have to act twenty in the adult world so people will let me drive a car." He winked at her, and she giggled. "Don't worry about your friends. Here, let's go grab some Oreos for our milk. I have something I want to show you."

Ib perked up and slid her fingers through his. "Is it a new painting?"

"Sort of." He grabbed the package of Oreos from the table and led her over to the wall where a picture frame she hadn't seen before hid underneath a paint-splattered sheet. "I actually picked this up at the Post Office the other day. There was no sender address, but I'm a member of several art galleries, so it could have been from them." Garry looked over at Ib and smiled. "Go ahead, pull the sheet off."

Carefully so she wouldn't spill her milk, Ib released his hand and wrapped her fingers in the soft fabric of the sheet. Then, quickly, she tugged and watched it slump gracefully to the floor like a fallen angel before staring up at the uncovered picture frame.

It was a painting. A painting of yellow roses.


	2. Chapter 2

Ib sat on the couch across from the rose painting and nibbled on an Oreo. She and Garry sat together, staring silently at the painting, taking in every curve and brushstroke of paint. It was a necessary reaction to a painting of such intricacy, and just like they did with all paintings, both of them considered whether they truly liked the depiction of the scene or not.

The painting, thought Ib, was gorgeous. The main focus was an oak bench painted in sweeping strokes beneath a yawning willow tree – the branches of which looked trapped by an invisible wind that sucked them up toward the clouds. Sunlight poured out around the edges of the tree, setting the dirt path that led up to the bench aglow with living fire that could not be touched.

Ib appreciated the artistic design that went into the painting, but what made her indecisive were the yellow rose bushes that grew thickly on either side of the path. Only one rose had bloomed, but it stuck out with wide, unfurled petals and sharp, gleaming thorns. Not to mention, a twined pattern of yellow roses surrounded the painting like a border. The roses ensnared the beauty of the paintings in a thorny cage.

"I don't like it," Ib said at last, lowering her Oreo and staring deadbeat at the painting. "The yellow roses haunt the painting too much."

Garry frowned and wiped his mouth with the back of his tattered coat sleeve. "The thorns do constrict around the painting, don't they. I wonder what the artist was trying to say through this painting? The artistic style is superb, and the colors used compliment the scenery perfectly . . . but the roses seem menacing. They definitely take away from the overall message." He scratched the side of his nose with his thumb, as he often did when thinking (or painting, which often left a streak of paint that would make Ib giggle), then glanced over at Ib and grinned guiltily. "Sorry. Running away with myself, there."

Ib smiled and reached up to brush a cookie crumb from his cheek. "Maybe a little." She glanced back at the painting, then shook her head. "Done with my milk. Would you like to do something else, Garry?"

"Ah . . . Of course." Garry stood up and went to cover the painting. "What would you like to do, Ib? We could work on that house of cards if you don't have to leave." He took her empty glass with long, painterly fingers that seemed almost too awkward to properly manage a paintbrush. Ib always wondered how he held a brush without accidentally knotting his fingers together. "When do your parents want you home?"

"In time for dinner." She checked the clock that hung on the wall over the futon shoved in the corner. It was a little after 4 now. "I could stay for another hour."

He smiled. "I'll go get the tarot cards," he said and slipped away to the closet. He'd bought a set of tarot cards from a garage sale several weeks back. Miniature paintings of medieval knights and castles were painted on the backs, and though Garry and Ib tried, they never managed to stack the cards high enough. Still, it was great fun, and they enjoyed passing the hours watching the cards crumble and laughing over the jokes Garry picked up – often just for her sake - at his small, restaurant job downtown.

Ib moved to the middle of the studio and sat down, cross-legged, on the floor. She kept her eyes on the covered painting, though. For some reason, she got the feeling something was watching her.

* * *

Another week passed in a whirlwind of school, chores, and family activities before Ib was allowed to go see Garry again. She sat at the kitchen table Friday afternoon, busily shoving the remains of some lasagna into her mouth before wiping her fingers against her napkin.

Her mother smiled at her, red eyes bright with amusement. "Slow down, dearest, so you don't choke." She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and swept a fly away strand of brown hair back from her face. The rest of her luscious hazelnut hair was pinned tidily in a bun at the top of her head. As always.

Ib scrubbed her mouth with the napkin and wondered at her own hair: thick, wild, and with bangs that half blinded her. Adults found it cute, but Ib wanted to be more like her mother. Gorgeous, with dark red eyes, a full figure, pretty dresses, and full, ruby lips. Maybe someday.

"Where's Papa?" Ib asked, pushing her plate across the table.

Ib's mother chuckled. "Off preparing for his speech at the gala tonight. I'm to attend, as well. Are you sure you'll be okay here alone?"

"Couldn't I go play with Garry?"

Her mother frowned slightly. "I'm sure Mr. Garry is very busy, sweetheart. He doesn't have time to always entertain you."

"But Mama! I haven't seen him in a week. Please?" Ib bit her lip, worried. She missed Garry. Going a week without seeing him was odd at the least, and heart-aching at the most. "I finished my homework . . ."

"Did you? Well . . . Fine. Just as long as you aren't interrupting him, okay? Don't stay long, and be back before dark. I don't want you walking the streets by yourself after dusk."

Ib beamed. "Yes, Mama!" Quickly, she jumped up and took her plate to the sink, then quickly hugged her mother before grabbing her backpack and bolting out the door. It was only six or seven blocks from her parent's condo to Garry's apartment complex, and the faster she walked, the sooner she would see him.

The thought excited her. A whole week . . . Maybe he had painted something new?

_Just as long as there aren't any scary dolls. I don't like those._

* * *

"Garry?" Ib knocked at his apartment door three times. "Garry, it's me! Ib! Are you home?" She knocked again, hoping he was home. They hadn't had a set meeting time, and he didn't have a cell phone, so she knew he might be at work . . . but she hoped he wasn't. She knocked once more before using her key to enter.

He was nowhere to be found. The futon was down and full of crumpled sheets, and the curtains were still drawn shut.

_Weird . . . He usually makes the bed before leaving the apartment._ He was really picky about cleanliness. Ib frowned and checked the table, but there was no note. She also checked the calender hanging on the fridge – his work schedule was always written on there so he wouldn't forget – but there was nothing written there either.

Ib wandered around his apartment for a few more minutes before stumbling across a pile of mail on his counter. Most of them were unopened bills, but a shiny yellow brochure peeked out from underneath the white envelopes and caught her attention. Carefully, she unearthed it and studied it beneath the kitchen lights.

**The David Zwirner Gallery**

Come see the art of the 21st century! New galleries and exhibits for artists and ? alike!

Featuring: _Garden of Yellow Roses_, the newest, unearthed painting from the late Weiss Guertana! Showing only for the next two weeks (October 17-31)! Come before you miss out!

Admissions: $5/person

Open: 11-5 Monday-Friday.

11-2 Saturday.

Closed on Sunday.

Ib stared at the brochure for a long moment. She had not been to the David Zwirner Gallery since the events of the year before, and she had no desire to go back. However, there was a note written in red sharpie on the side of the brochure –_October 20__th__, 3pm _– that made Ib assume Garry had gone to the gallery to check out the new painting. _Garden of Yellow Roses _reminded Ib of the painting hanging in the other room.

She shivered and checked the time on the microwave that smelled faintly of ramen noodles and popcorn.

3:37

Ib tucked the brochure in her backpack and headed for the apartment door. If he was at the gallery, she would go to find him. It would only be a ten minute walk to get there.

She touched the doorknob . . . and then thought she heard something crack. Ib paused. She turned around and headed back into the main room.

The sheet had fallen from the painting on the wall. Something red had splashed across the picture.

Carefully, Ib crept closer, fingers knotted in her ironed, white shirt. Something was written across the inside of the picture. Not the outside, but the inside. As Ib looked at it, she could barely make out the words scrawled in red across the center of the painting. They dripped onto the yellow rose.

Ib shivered.

**.ENIM SI ESOR EULB EHT**

_Garry._

She turned from the picture and ran for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! Enjoy. :)

* * *

Bland city walls, dirtied by the sludge of car-sprayed mud and old bricks, towered on either side of Ib as she ran up to the door of the art gallery and went inside. It had taken her ten minutes to get there, and each, jarring step scuffed her new shoes and pounded the words of the painting inside her head.

_The blue rose is mine._

_ The blue rose is mine._

_ The blue rose is mine._

Ib stepped inside the gallery and let the door shut behind her, trying with painful gasps to catch her breath. The inside of her mouth felt gritty, and her gums buzzed from how hard she'd clamped her teeth together. For a while, she thought she could even taste blood. Pulling her backpack from her shoulder, Ib quickly walked forward to the secretary's desk. She rummaged in the side pocket before pulling out a fiver and slapping it on the table.

"Thank you," the secretary said, smiling over the counter at Ib. "Here's a pamphlet of today's exhibits. Enjoy, though please remember, no touching the art and no disturbing the other spectators."

Ib nodded and stuffed the pamphlet in her bag so quickly the corner caught on the zipper and ripped off. She wasn't sure what the word _spectators_ meant, but she assumed the man was warning her against getting in other people's ways. She'd follow that rule, of course . . . with one exception.

Slinging her backpack across her shoulders again, Ib walked through the archway of the lobby doors into the main room. A spiral staircase was off to her left, leading to the upstairs, but otherwise there were several doorways into other rooms around her. Ib bit her lip. Garry could be anyway.

With a sigh, Ib walked up to a lady standing beside the staircase with a cart of flowers. Her name tag suggested in cheery bold text that she could be asked for help.

"Excuse me," said Ib, gripping her bag's straps tightly. The woman turned to her and smiled invitingly. "Could you tell me where the Guertena painting is?"

"Certainly. Up these stairs, down the hall, and to the left. It's the only painting in the room, so you can't miss it." The woman clasped her hands together. "Are you a Guertena fan? It is so nice to see his name get so much spotlight. His works are genius! Did you know this year marks the 75th anniversary of his death? We are handing out roses in commemoration of his works. Especially his latest work, _Garden of Yellow Roses._ Here, I bet you'd like a rose." She turned and plucked a flower from the cart. "This one, I think. There you are." The woman's eyes sparkled as she handed Ib a single, red rose.

Ib took the rose between careful fingers. Her stomach churned uneasily at the rose, and somehow the racing of her heart and the quivering of her knees warned her this rose probably wasn't a coincidence. She muttered her thanks to the lady, stuck the stock of the rose into one of her backpack pockets, and ran up the stairs despite the withered looks of spectators who were studying paintings that hung along the staircase wall.

The hallway above was too congested for running, so Ib took to walking. She studied the paintings as she went, catching only glimpses of color here and there behind milling patrons. There was something wrong about this place. The paintings were silent. Lifeless, even. They dripped with color and shape, but Ib almost felt they'd be better off in black and white.

_Garry says art galleries are supposed to be alive. The paintings are supposed to share a story. They whisper, he says, if only you listen close enough. But I'm listening, and I'm looking . . ._

Ib moved around a couple staring at a painting of abstract angles and walked through the door the lady had talked about. A sense of uneasy weighed heavily upon her shoulders. She hated coming to art galleries. In fact, she'd prefer to look at Garry's art and the paintings he brought home from old art shops. Yet here she was, back again, and feeling as if the paintings watched her every move.

Garry stood at the far end of the room, staring at a painting that took up almost the whole wall. The copy he received in the mail hardly gave the real one justice. It was hauntingly beautiful, with strikingly vivid colors, and the way it loomed over Garry's head made Ib feel like it might swallow him whole.

Ib wrung her fingers together and approached Garry, her soft footfall not enough to shake him from his thoughtful inspection. A blue rose was stuck in his coat pocket.

"Garry."

He startled and turned, only to relax when he say her.

"Hey, Ib. Sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here looking for you! What are _you _doing here?" Ib glanced at the painting and shivered.

"I don't know." He smiled. "I got a brochure in the mail about this painting, and I thought I ought to check it out before it moves to a different gallery." Turning toward it, he tapped his nose and frowned. "Interesting, isn't it? Much more beautiful in real life. Though, as you'll see, the copy I got wasn't fully accurate." Garry gestured with one hand toward the corner of the painting. "The rose that bloomed in my painting is not bloomed in this painting. There's no bud there at all, actually. It's almost like . . . like the flower was plucked from the bush."

"Garry," Ib said, tugging at his sleeve urgently. "We really shouldn't be here. I saw . . ."

"Is that a rose in your backpack?" Ib blinked, fumbling for the words Garry'd interrupted, as he reached around and carefully pulled her rose from the pocket. "Where did you get this?"

His face was furrowed and concerned as he turned the rose around at different angles.

"I got it from the lady downstairs . . ."

"Lady?"

"The one by the staircase. She had a cart of flowers."

"Ib . . . There was no lady."

Ib stared at him. "Of course there was. She gave me directions up here. Besides. There's a rose in your pocket, too," she said pointedly, somewhat frustrated. What was he talking about? She had seen the lady with her own eyes, and he also had a rose . . . a blue rose . . .

Garry looked down at his jacket, then turned in a circle, trying to check all his pockets. When he stilled, there was worry in his eyes.

"I don't have a rose."

For some reason, his inability to see the rose that so clearly stuck out of his pocket made her eyes prick with tears. "Yes you do, Garry. It's right there. See, I'll show you." She reached out to pluck the rose from his pocket, not wanting to believe that it wasn't there.

The lights flickered, crackling florescence that startled Ib and made her unconsciously snatch her hand away. She looked around the room, her heart racing, clogging her throat with fear.

"We should leave," she said, knotting her fingers in Garry's sleeve. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"Me either." The lights settled, and a couple walked past the room, but Ib's muscles still ached with tension. "Doesn't look like anything happened, but let's leave anyway."

Garry took a step away from the painting, Ib in tow.

_Thwack. Thwack thwack._

. . .

Ib turned around to see painted red words dripping down the wall underneath the painting.

**LEAVING SO SOON?**

**COME PLAY.**

"Garry . . ." Ib began, her voice shaking, staring at the words like they'd disappear if she turned away.

The lights flickered again, and the painted words glowed . . . and then before either of them could react, a thick black hand reached through the painting and crushed them in darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: (derp … I've been forgetting to do this) I don't own Ib or anything associated with the game. I'm simply a fan who wanted to write what I thought could have happened next. Thank you for reading.

A/N: I try to write longer chapters, but they seem to want to remain short. Sorry! However, short chapters mean quicker updates! Keep that in mind, and thank you for all the comments, follows, and favorites! Much appreciated!

* * *

:: 4 ::

When Ib regained consciousness, she found herself drooling on a patch of grass. Her head ached, and the strands of grass tickled her nose and eyes, threatening to make her sneeze. For a moment she laid there, trying to stop the pounding in her skull. There were a few reasons that she didn't want to get up. Her head was one of them, and until the world stopped spinning, she refused to move.

The other reasons were much more pressing. If she recalled correctly, she had just been standing in an art gallery staring at a painting. Where had the grass come from? She could also feel a gentle breeze blowing up the backs of her tights, and that also wasn't very reassuring.

A groan to her right, a familiar groan, made her take in a deep breath and lift her head. Bright light glared into her eyes and she squinted, just able to make out Garry's purple hair in the grass and dirt a few feet away from her. He looked as if he'd fallen straight into a rose bush, though half of his body sprawled out of it.

Ib got to her knees and crawled over to him.

"Garry," she whispered, reaching her grass-stained hands to try and turn him over. His rose appeared from underneath him, half-crushed with a few petals missing. Ib bit her lip and gathered the blue mess into her hands, careful not to disturb the rest of it. She knew it'd been real! . . . not that the fact actually comforted her anymore. Her rose was safe, since she'd fallen on her front, but his had taken a nasty beating.

At least enough of a beating to make him groan and ache.

After moving his rose, Ib untangled his coat from the rose bush and struggled to pull his legs out from the leafy greens. When she got him out far enough, Ib rolled him over onto his back with effort and cupped his face in her hands.

He groaned again, trying to turn his face away from the light.

"Garry. Wake up."

"Hurts. Too much light."

Ib moved between him and the light, shading his face. "Better? Get up. I don't know where we are . . . and I don't want to go alone. Please."

He sighed, twitched as if shuddering, and then cracked one eye open. "What . . ."

"I have your rose, but it lost a few petals. I'm sorry."

Garry grew solemn and struggled to sit up. He clutched at his side, as if having been stabbed there, and groggily took in their surroundings. After a second, his eyes widened. He got up slowly, and then staggered to his feet and turned around in a circle.

Ib stood up too and looked around. Her eyes also widened. She had expected hallways and living paintings, but this . . .

"We . . . we're in Guertena's painting," Garry said, voicing her thoughts and sounding just as shocked as she felt. "I don't understand."

They stood in the middle of the dirt path that glowed from sunlight underneath their feet. A thicket of yellow rosebushes (none of them blooming) lined each side, blocking their way off the path. In one direction, the path led to a shimmering wall that looked as if it concealed something, though Ib could see no door. In the other direction, the path led straight up to a sturdy willow tree guarding a hand-carved, oak bench. It continued on around the tree either way and disappeared beyond to somewhere Ib could not see, as the tree blocked her vision.

Ib felt goosebumps raise along her arms, and it took her a moment to realize why.

There was no sound. The wind did not rustle, the leaves did not shiver, the dirt did not crunch. There were no birds, no bugs . . . Life was there, but it was mute. Why was that?

Ib turned to Garry. "What are you thinking about, Garry?"

Garry tightened his fingers against his ribs, eyes clouded. A small frown crinkled between his eyebrows. "I think we shouldn't be here. All of this seems to be orchestrated down to exact details, and it's fairly obvious someone is expecting us. I'm . . . well, I'm not quite sure I want to find out who."

"Too late," a voice giggled, catching Ib and Garry by surprise. Garry stepped in front of Ib automatically, shielding her as his eyes fell on a familiar figure sitting on the bench about twenty feet away. "I am thankful you came to visit," Mary continued, grinning. "It has been awfully lonely. You know, since you tried to _kill me._"

". . ."

Ib clutched at the folds of Garry's jacket and stared at Mary, uncomprehending. How was this even possible? She had seen Mary burn into ashes along with her painting last year. There had been nothing left but a palette knife . . . even Garry had stepped in the ashes to make sure she wouldn't come back.

"Anyway, since you're lost on words, I thought we should catch up on a few things. Eh, Garry? Ib?" Mary's blue eyes caught Ib's, and she smiled gleefully at her, as if she were the same lost, little girl in the gallery . . . as if nothing had ever happened between them. "Go ahead and have a seat, Garry. Ib. We should talk." She folded her hands against her chin and waited.

"I-I would prefer to stand, thank you," Garry said, trying to regain his linguistic footing.

"Suit yourself."

"How did you survive?" Garry asked, unable to help himself. "We burned your painting, and you along with it. You crumbled into ashes. I don't-"

"It wasn't enough," Mary said flatly, a dull anger sparking in her eyes and turning the blue into a tempest. "That painting was my doorway between worlds. It was my direct link to Guertena's gallery, but it did not make up my complete existence. When you so _thoughtfully_ burned my portrait, you sent me back in here." Mary gestured around, and Ib saw something glint in the sunlight.

Not a palette knife. A real knife.

"What is here?"

"The inside of a painting. You confined me to the cell that is a painting. I'm trapped within these paintings now. Unable to go back to the gallery. Unable to find my way out of the _Fabricated World_ and into yours. _You caged me here._ Why did you think the Lady in Red wanted out? Why did you think all those pictures moved? Guertena trapped bits of life in those canvases. Stay too long and, well, you go a little mad."

Mary lifted the knife and stroked her fingers along the side of it, studying it in the glinting sunlight. "Of course, I can move to other paintings. I can traverse through the painted lines and golden frames of others. But it drains at me, you see. It makes me crave for human sunlight. Human emotions." She smiled. "All the things you have, Garry . . . Ib, that you denied me last time."

"What do you want from me, Mary?" Garry asked, gripping Ib's shoulder and keeping her behind his tensed, wary stance. "And leave Ib out of this."

Mary giggled and waved the knife above her head. She kicked her feet; the green of her swaying skirts moved in the wind like fluttering leaves. "This isn't about Ib! Ib and I . . . we're best friends, right? Right, Ib?" Her face darkened into a snarl. "It's only you, Garry. You're in the way of us. And you . . . you need to leave."

". . . what?" His fingers curled against Ib's shoulder hard enough to bruise now. Ib wanted to speak, to stop Mary, to say something that would get them out of the painting and as far away from Mary as possible, but she felt frozen and very, very cold. Not to mention a hideous dark mass with gnarled fingers and red eyes was slowly appearing from atop the willow tree . . . reminding Ib very much of Garry's recent paintings.

"Garry . . ." she whimpered, unable to pull her eyes away from the doll. His rose fell from her fingertips.

"It's you, Garry. You're the problem. And if I'm not mistaken . . . problems usually ought to be fixed. So I'm here to fix you." Mary sat up straight, staring at Garry with wide, devouring eyes, and then threw the knife at him.

It took Ib a moment to register what had happened. Garry's fingers released her shoulder, going instead to clutch the hilt of the knife that stuck out between his upper ribs. He took a step back, and then his knees buckled and he fell, breathing through clenched teeth while watching blood poured out between his fingers.

Then, as she cried out his name, the doll ascended upon Ib. The last thing she saw before fainting was Mary laughing . . . always laughing . . . and picking up Garry's blue rose before dropping a yellow one at his knees. Blood stained his shirt, but his eyes were locked on the rose . . . and then her vision was stifled by the doll and her memory became a messy, horrible blur.

When she woke up, she couldn't exactly remember what she was doing . . .


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Ridiculously short chapter FTW! . . . not really, I know, but I just don't think they'll ever get longer than 1500-1700 words. Short and sweet seems to be the pattern here. This is good, though, because I'll update quicker. Used to be that I wrote 5k chapters and updated maybe once a week. Short helps me get them up faster. Hope that's okay!

* * *

:: 5 ::

Ib lifted her fingers to her temples and shook her head slowly. It felt like her thoughts were filled with clouds, and for a moment, she wasn't sure what exactly she'd been doing. Had she spaced into daydreaming? She did that a lot, so it was possible. But even though her eyes focused and her mind cleared, as if she had been tugged out of distant thoughts without warning, she couldn't shake the feeling that something important had occupied her just seconds ago . . . some mental overview she couldn't now remember.

Looking up, Ib stared at the painting she'd been brought to. It had a pretty depiction of a yellow rose garden, with a towering willow tree and stout, unoccupied bench. Footprints laden the dirt path leading up to the bench, but Ib couldn't see anyone in the portrait. She wondered what the empty footprints stood for. They were gloomy, those empty, lonely footprints, and Ib sighed.

"What do you think about the painting, Mary?" Ib asked. "Do you like the yellow roses?" She turned to see Mary staring at her hands – her thin, china-like hands – in serious wonder. Her rosy lips were parted in what looked like surprise, and her blue eyes swam with an undercurrent of private thoughts. "Mary?" She still didn't respond, turning her hands over and flexing them, tracing the pattern of lines in her palms. Ib blinked and stepped in, grabbing her fingers gently. "Mary."

Mary gasped in slight surprise. "Huh? Oh." Her eyes refocused and landed on Ib. "What was the question, Ib? I'm sorry. These paintings inspire too much . . . inner reflection." She straightened and smiled.

"I just wondered if you liked the roses, that's all." Ib slipped her hands away and looked at the painting again. "Especially that one on the dirt, there, by the footprints. Almost as if it were plucked and discarded."

Mary grinned. "Oh, I don't know. Yellow roses are so . . . bland. I like blue ones better, see?" Mary held up a perfect blue rose, the one she'd gotten downstairs from the lady with the flower cart. "Isn't it cute, Ib? The way the petals furl at the center like a round, little button." She lifted the rose and beamed as the petals tickled her nose. "It's so soft, too! And smells like . . . like . . ." Mary inhaled again and giggled. "Heaven."

Ib grinned at Mary's contagious giggles but looked uncertainly back at the painting. Something about it seemed familiar to her, but she couldn't pinpoint what . . .

"The gallery is about to close, Ib," Mary continued, lacing their hands and guiding Ib away from the painting. Ib took one last glance at it before shrugging and following Mary, listening as she talked. "Maybe we could go back to my apartment and put the rose in a vase? Yours too, and then our roses could be together."

"Together?" Ib asked.

"Forever. As is meant to be."

* * *

An hour later, Mary's apartment simmered with the smells of Mexican cuisine. Ib sat at the kitchen table and watched Mary read, delighted, from a cookbook laid open on her counter. Spices, sauces, rice, and lentils – things Mary couldn't help but snitch from as she tossed them into the pan – all cooked in a frying pan on the stove that had, originally, been turned on too hot. Ib had helped, though, and set things straight before setting the plates and taking a seat. No use burning food if they wanted dinner. It didn't help that Mary was a little forgetful.

Ib's eyes wandered over Mary's tall, slender form. She had spent a good ten minutes after they got back brushing Mary's golden hair and pulling it back, and now the resulting ponytail was curled over one shoulder and came to rest just above her bottom ribs. The gold matched well with the threads and lace on her slim green dress, and Ib found herself thinking that Mary could be a princess if she wanted.

"Mary, do you want to be a princess?" Ib asked, resting her hands against her chin. "You look like one."

Mary looked over from shoving around the ingredients in the pan and smiled. "Do I? Which one?"

"Rapunzel, maybe, or Cinderella."

Her face brightened. "I know those fairy tales! Do you really think so?"

"Of course."

Mary placed the lid on the pan and lowered the heat – Ib had shown her how to do that earlier, too – then walked over to Ib. "Ib, would you like to play dress-up after dinner? We could put on pretty dresses, paint our nails, do each others' hair, maybe even make paper crowns?"

Ib considered this. She loved to play, of course, and wasn't expected home for a few more hours . . . Besides, they played together all the time. That was one of the reasons she loved Mary. They never ran out of fun things to do, despite Mary being pretty much a grown-up. She was a _fun_ grown-up.

"Yep!" Ib grinned. "I get to wear the purple dress, though. Purple's my favorite color."

Mary clapped her hands and bounced up and down. "Yay! I can't wait. Come, Ib, would you grab the milk from the fridge? Let's eat. The quicker we finish our meal, the quicker we can play, so we shouldn't waste any time."

Ib nodded and ran to fetch the milk and a few, plastic cups from the cupboard. Her eyes fell on the roses now sitting in a vase filled with crystal blue water on the counter – an unnatural color for water, but it was probably just the lighting – and for a moment she felt . . . weird . . . but then she shook the feeling and returned to table to find Mary already serving up the rice and lentils, and soon forgot all about the brief confusion that had curdled in her stomach.

* * *

Alone. Very, very alone.

Garry sat on the bench inside a painting that hung within a darkened, lifeless building. Artificial sunlight warmed his back, but it did not matter to him. He felt colder than he ever had, as if blood no longer ran through his veins. Maybe it didn't. His thoughts were there, his emotions were there, but feeling no longer existed.

Even the stem of the paper, yellow rose clutched between his pale fingers seemed like a dream. Like a memory.

Like a curse.

Pain no longer existed. The moment Mary hopped out of the painting with his blue rose, they had switched places. He had healed, healed into a non-existent life. Healed into nothing but the idea of a mad painter.

He was only a dream here. Neither living nor dead. A story, an image.

Garry dropped the rose and buried his face in his hands, raking his fingers through the hair he couldn't completely feel.

He was a forgotten memory.


End file.
